


From Skin and Bone, The Heart Remains

by GhostEyeliner



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: An introspective fic of sorts, Cause lets be real V's whole existence is something worth thinking about, Gen, V voice: i may be baby but let me just sit here and reflect on life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:48:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21552550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostEyeliner/pseuds/GhostEyeliner
Summary: When you're but two days old, it turns out you can be quite retrospective
Kudos: 6





	From Skin and Bone, The Heart Remains

Death's door was made from gold, brilliant and beautiful. A greeting to all who had lost their bodies, a soul only left to be welcomed into a life after life had ended. The beginning of an experience that those with flesh and bone could not hold. Oh may the heavens be something lovely, for who knows if they are clean and pure due to the souls that reside there, or because nothing so simple, yet wonderful can ever be. 

For he remembered a cold beginning to the land that many took after death. A guard dog, crystalized ice given life, angry like the hellfire one associated with the world underneath our own. With bitterness the same as the chilled breath it froze those foolish enough to stand before it and not beg for mercy. Though perhaps that wasn't the normal experience, for his life before had been very different. For he had seeked the underworld before death, being alive before the beings who told him to not step any further down the path he wished to take

Never did listen, not even as a child. Though why would he? For rebellion was in their blood through their father, a betrayer of the kind father had called his own. He was the same, rebelling against the humanity that was stuck flowing through his veins. It was simple, ignoring that part of himself. Humanity was weak after all. Why else would he had become a victim once a upon a time if not for the weakness that this part of his body gave?

Some would perhaps call that very mindset a by product of a childish mind and at the time, he would've been insulted to be referred to in any way that would've imply he was powerless again. That's all being a child had meant to him. Alone, unloved, unprotected, **weak**.

But now? He would say they would be right to call him that. Well, not "he" exactly. Now the he that this one was referring to was the whole of him, the man who was two put into one instead of the current circumstances of half being here while the other was off being a monster. What a unique situation he had been placed into. A position to be retrospective to the past yet not fully feel as though he had participated in those events, because if one thought back on those past actions, was he really there?

After all, he was only one half of the whole who had made those decisions. The half that was rejected through most of the whole's life, the side that was branded weak and ignored. Human in other words. The human side of him, never was he truly consulted before the whole had made his choices in the past. It was the demonic side again and again that lost, yet the anger at such powerlessness was embedded in his heart. If the whole had thought he was powerless then, wouldn't he just despise what this man currently was?

That philosophy of humanity being weak that the whole held was reflected in every aspect of him. From a body that was nothing more skin and bone, worryingly thin to some all the way to being the one who held onto the nightmares, the terror of times where the whole was no longer in control of himself. The bearer of everything deemed a weakness. He was everything that the whole had hated. And as he looked upon himself in such a sorry state, he couldn't help but agree with that assignment of himself.

Nightmares, that was a constant thing since he had become this individual. From the moment he awoke they had been burned into the back of his eyelids. Never to let him rest without facing demons from a past he could only envision as though he was an observer. Even if he felt like he had been only an observer then, now he felt that dread of shadows that crawled over him whenever he slept. One would think being able to control them when he woke would make them nothing more than things to be tamed like a wild animal. But this wasn't that simple.

They may be at his command, these figures of the horrors that will never leave his mind. But they still held a power over him, they held a parasitic relationship. He used their power yet they slowly killed him, a cruel world isn't it? Born from one who valued only strength, something that he himself shared forced into this position of powerlessness. Relying on others to do his bidding, others who wore the faces of past ghosts. Nightmares brought to life. They may not be able to kill other demons, for a nightmare could only inflict pain, never kill. But time after time, his body began to fall apart and those beings only brought him closer to death's door. It was like they were carrying him there instead of him having to slowly crawl to it. These nightmares could kill him.

Those familiars who wore nightmare faces weren't the only things he could barely stand to look at for too long, lest he lose himself to a time where he, the whole was nothing more than a slave. Even his dreams, if he could refer to them as such showed nothing but mirrors, reflecting that broken body and mind that he was, seeing the face of the man who supposedly killed him for good. The brother he had once been identical too, yet who had overcome him more than once. Or sometimes he saw the body of the whole, broken and falling apart under the command of another. All their faces were his yet not, it was... Haunting to say the least. What he could've been versus what he been made to be. Quite sickening that he was stuck in this position of a body that slowly cracked and faded away. Like something that never was.

When one was as old as he was, would they think about such things? Or was he simply bound to be this way due to the circumstances of his birth? One could only wonder, for humanity and what they were capable of was still a concept so new to him. Someday, after his flesh and bones crumble away into dust, his heart may simply disappear, the humanity of the whole dead like "he" had wanted all along. To be erased like the dark angel that he had been for a moment in history.

Even though he was the part branded as worthless, he'd live. Live with the horrors that haunt him, the nightmares that killed him ever faster. Live with the reailty that he _was_ the weak one, forced into the position of victim. Live with the fact he _couldn't_ achieve his ambitions alone.

He was born from the man known as Vergil, the elder twin son of the legendary Dark Knight Sparda. A man known for his coldness like the steel of his sword, the blade that truly gave birth to this lowly half. Labeled as nothing worth consideration, he still held onto a part of the whole that the other half of he, a demon without a heart would never have. Determination in spite of the weakness that clung to his bones. To strive to become whole once again before he found himself unable to drag his pathetic body across the floor anymore. He may be but two days old but when your birth was as unnatural as his, life was to be nothing more then a fleeting display of a pitiful man trying to make up for the actions of the "he" who had felt above consequences

That is what his existence as V was to be

**Author's Note:**

> Beat the game in a day, cried about V, wrote some words


End file.
